Page 107 of Boiling Point
“Yes,” she answered simply.
“I told you I was engaged once, and that she died. Which is true.”
“I’m guessing there’s more to the story.”
“I took Claire to one of my father’s ski resorts in Switzerland. It was an engagement gift from the family. After a long day on the slopes, we ended up in the hot tub and, shameful to admit, high out of our bleeding heads.”
Gabrielle frowned. “You mean…highhigh?” she asked, bringing her thumb and index finger to her lips, miming a puff of smoke.
I let out a dark laugh and dragged a finger beneath my nose. “Think powder, not pot.”
Her expression sobered. “Oh.”
“I don’t know how I even remember everything. I probably don’t. She got out of the hot tub to fetch more drinks—like we needed anything else. But we were young and stupid. She slipped on the deck, fell back, and smashed her head on a stone bench.”
Gabrielle put her hand to her mouth.
I stared straight ahead but saw nothing of the landscape. “She was dead before I got to her. The family wanted to keep it quiet, so they rewrote the story. Made it something else entirely.”
“What did they say?” Her voice was soft, the question hesitant.
“Father couldn’t risk bad press—heaven forbid the resort should suffer. The official story was that she hit a tree skiing anddied in my arms. He cast me as the innocent, grieving fiancé.” I blew out a shaky breath. “And I let him.”
“What happened after that?” she asked, her voice gentle.
“There were questions,” I said. “Her injuries didn’t match the story, for one. The resort staff and witnesses had to be bought off. And Claire’s family…” I swallowed hard. “Money solves a lot of problems. Everyone has a price when it comes to it.”
The horses plodded on. Gabrielle said nothing, her gaze distant.
“Please say something,” I pleaded. “Even if it’s that you can’t stay with me.”
Gabrielle blinked, eyes snapping back into focus. “Why on earth would I say that?”
I looked down, tightening my grip on the reins. “I can imagine what you must think of me now.”
“I’m thinking it’s odd you talk like you’re guilty of something.” She brushed my arm. “It was an accident. You didn’t kill her.”
“Perhaps not,” I said, my voice low. “But I brought her there. And I got her high.”
“No. You were ‘young and stupid,’ like you said. It just as easily could’ve been you. Though selfish as it may be, I’m glad it wasn’t.”
“But I helped cover it up.”
A pause, as sharp and clean as the morning air. “Is that how you ended up in the US?”
I nodded. “There was too much talk, too many rumors. I was a young lecturer at Oxford, but it was clear that my career was…tainted.” I met her gaze, clear and unwavering. “England is a small country. And the upper class? Smaller still. There was nothing left for me. So my father pulled some strings and got me a post-doc at Princeton. After that, I got my position at Pageon my own—no strings, no favors.” I let out a breath. “And you know the rest.”
The weight of it all—the years, the silence, the shame—fell away with the words. Gabrielle’s hand covered mine, warm and steady.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice a soft tether. “That sounds…brutal.”
“It was,” I admitted. “But I’m not sure I’d have found you otherwise.”
She looked at me, her expression unreadable for a moment, then softened—something tender blooming behind her eyes. I couldn’t look away.
“I know now,” I said, steady and certain, “you’re it for me. The one I want beside me for the rest of my life. I can’t live without you—and don’t intend to try.”
She blinked. “Is that a proposal?”
